


Art Appreciation

by IrreWilderer (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, NSFW, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:09:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/IrreWilderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are lines about her person to which charcoal can’t compare. Pressed hard, pulled neat, borders shade in lithe, splayed legs. This sketch of her waist is everything. This picture of her thighs is all. There’s white sheets like canvass beneath her body, and she’s bare, on her back, looking up, looking restless. As wanting as the wall, free of plaster and free of free of paint, she waits to be embellished; and ravished, cherished, relished.</p><p>So Solas draws himself between her legs. “I will feel you break, vhenan.”</p><p> </p><p>Prompt: "Paint Me"<br/>Summary: Lavellan repays Solas for painting a picture for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art Appreciation

There are lines about her person to which charcoal can’t compare. Pressed hard, pulled neat, borders shade in lithe, splayed legs. This sketch of her waist is everything. This picture of her thighs is all. There’s white sheets like canvass beneath her body, and she’s bare, on her back, looking up, looking restless. As wanting as the wall, free of plaster and free of free of paint, she waits to be embellished; and ravished, cherished, relished.

So Solas draws himself between her legs. “I will feel you break, vhenan.”

The shape of modest breasts are sought. Solas shades her nipples to bruised attention while plucking firm. He pulls; he holds. He watches as the pain builds and sparks its way to a storm in Ma’ven’s belly. Then he releases. She is lost. Ma’ven bucks when Solas brushes circles across humming skin in some pretense of sorry kindness. Then he slaps once, again, meaner, more; six times and counting, and the weight of her breast responds by beating a rhythm to her core.

“Fenedhis, Solas!” She hisses against the rawness. Moans for it, too. _Fuck_.

“Did I not warn you of what you’d pay?” The words are left as a reminder on her lips as Solas speaks and stares straight into her eyes. “Did I not say I’d not be cheap? This was your bargain, Ma’ven. This was your offer. Perhaps do not bid what you cannot bear.”

The threat of possession rocks her.

“Ar lath ma,” she keens.

The confession of devotion strikes him.

“You are mine,” he swears.

Ma’ven’s neck needs study; craves the sculpt of desperate lips. And Solas kisses hard to darken all her lines to the black of screaming need. His teeth leave indents – he pressed too hard on paper flesh. With the lap of his tongue and a few licks more, cruel marks are erased and he makes a trail down. Over stomach, over womb, he’s crosshatching hitched breaths on her. She’s sighing and he smiles. She is quivering and he quakes. Taking measure, considering angles, up go her ankles flung far over his shoulders.

Solas, starving artist, buries deep. Solas, starving artist, feasts. He hungers after moans engraved lovely upon her mouth. He finds famine fixed by the sweetness of her cunt. She’s soaked to a watercolour, and all sorts of reds and pinks bloom out about her womanhood as she readies. The flat of his tongue paints thick and heavy over her folds, curls when he comes to the end, and wriggles the tip against her clit. Such strokes are many; he layers on his lavishing, peels through her lips, lapping heavy while legs are quivering over his shoulders in a violent mess.

But Ma’ven is silent; silent as a picture. Solas sucks at her lips, pulls, and nothing. Solas’s tongue writhes with all its strength, to lash through her walls and be cradled inside, and still she is quiet.

“More… Solas…” Says the portrait woman of whimpering grace. “Fingers… stretch me, please. I need…”

Two fingers find a tight fit, but now she’s crying. He fucks her smooth and steady, watching as slicked digits move sloppy through Ma’ven’s soaking entrance. While her hips buck and grind, Solas sees; realizes. There’s likeness in this to eyes cast over a fine piece of art in an Orlesian salon, and now he grins. Then he pulls back, out from under her legs.

“Why are…” Ma’ven shutters. “Creators, don’t stop.”

Her legs are sprawled out, and there isn’t a fold hidden in shadow or petal still furled before him. The woman is spread completely, waiting for what she knows is next.

“Touch yourself,” Solas orders instead. The connoisseur knows what he likes, and knows he can endure the throb of neglect at his cock. “Bring yourself to your end. I would see it.”

“Phft,” Ma’ven laughs through heaving breaths and shaky gasps. “Don’t play. Come here.”

“As I asked, Ma’ven.”

The woman props up on her elbows, staring at his figure beyond the end of the bed.

“Five sovereigns says you can’t stay away,” she challenges.

“As you so cheap?” Solas smirks. Ma’ven snorts, but complies. Or so it seems.

The woman rolls onto her stomach, gets up on her knees and arches her back, displaying herself obscenely. Solas forgets, for a moment, the game. He forgets everything but the drive to bury into her, and he moves forward, feet quick over the carpet, so that he may sheath deep, hard and merciless, and they’ll both be screaming in a second. There’s a little soft laugh from Ma’ven, though. She’s heard him move.

“I was being kind, you know. Not cheap.” Ma’ven stretches her legs a little more, and Solas can see she has started doing as he ordered, although there is little for him to watch but the subtle flurry of movement below, and the gratifying expanse of her ass spread before him. “I kept the wager low in regards to you. Wasn’t sure how much an apostate—“ a grunt, a groan and a whimper “—could affo… oh, Creators, Solas, please… something in me, I need it…”

Solas has to choke back a groan as he finally takes himself in hand. He doesn’t need a stroke, but he gives in, and fears how quick his end will come when he pushes inside.

Which he does. Slow, easy, just at the tip, Solas presses his precum-slicked cockhead against the tight ring of her buttocks. He feels her shiver immediately and soften around him. The heat, the swallowing, Ma’ven thudding one leg against the bed as she begins to beg without words because she’s beyond articulation as he eases in – Solas grips on to her waist, and ruts in short thrusts, only in her to a couple inches but knows this is how she likes it. Just enough to tease all those sensitive, flustered nerves into blinding frenzy and prime her for an explosive orgasm. Four, five pumps, and he pulls out to pound back in to her pussy as fast, sloppy and relentless as he can.

Ma’ven comes almost immediately, and not quietly. Her walls suck and throb, roll like liquid heat, and she tries to ball the sheets in the hopes of gaining some stability as she’s rocked and thrown, but there’s no strength in her fingers. Solas searches for his end, for this was what he wanted – to see those long, delicate fingers limp and light, because his lover is so consumed in her bliss that there’s nothing in her body for her beyond that torrent swirling at her cunt.

Her body folds and he goes with. Lying prone upon her, Solas’s hips jerk and writhe as Ma’ven sobs softly and happily, hissing when it hits the right spot, and then Solas finds what he needs. Blackness pours through his belly, white light floods his mind, his limbs are numb and he’s shuttering. Done, spent, the window has broken and he sees clearer into his soul as he spills his seed and Ma’ven lies there –

Ma’ven lies there until Solas peels himself off.

The bed is so big, Orlesian and gaudy, and Solas’s can’t feel her she’s so far away.

“My love,” he calls, brushing fingers down her back in a beckon. The woman rolls over, smiles sleepily, and then laughs.

“You dropped that pretense pretty quick,” Ma’ven mentions, putting a finger to his lip and tapping it. Solas takes it into his mouth and tastes her thick flavor – one last gift.

“I prefer that we go as equals, though I know you favor playing the submissive.” Solas’s grey eyes moved over her cheek pressed on the mattress, the hair tussled terribly, the coy smirk.

“I just like seeing you so possessive,” she shrugs. “I like seeing my body belong to you as much as my heart does.”

Solas smirks. “Poetic.”

They lie there; fall into sleep. Not so close, but with fingers touching out to each other; Solas stroking her hair, Ma’ven brushing his arm. They are the very picture of satisfied contentment.


End file.
